


like water to my face.

by alicejericho



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-03-01 15:31:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13297833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alicejericho/pseuds/alicejericho
Summary: He mulls over the jealousy and determines it has minimal to do with not being the one to lift the Cup, it has less to do with Zimms kissing someone who isn’t him. It has everything to do with Jack getting to kiss his boyfriend in front of everyone without a care in the world.





	like water to my face.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [softyellowlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/softyellowlight/gifts).



> I didn’t have a lot to do with the comic for a while there, and even less to do with the fandom for a while before that. But come on as if I was going to stay away from this.
> 
> This is for Jordan who indulges my need for constant validation.

Kent experiences two contrasting sensations in quick concession.

The first is jealousy—suffocating jealousy that he is damn sure he’s never felt before in his entire life. The second, though, is the worst. _Numb_ is the only way to explain it. His mind is empty of any thoughts. He can’t hear anything being said around him, he barely even registers Scraps taking his phone back.

He’s just there, on a barstool, having just seen Jack Zimmermann kiss another man on the ice after winning the Stanley Cup.

Another drink appears in front of him and he shifts his hand from the empty glass, revelling in the coolness of the condensation and how it stems some of the sweat he didn’t know was seeping from his palm. It helps everything else come back into focus. Nobody is talking about Zimmermann when he can finally hear what everyone is saying around him which makes him wonder exactly how long he was zoned out before.

He’s quick to join in on the conversation—St Martin’s goal was _filthy_ and arguably criminal—but he’s only really thinking about how long he has to sit there before he can leave without people thinking it’s about Zimmermann.

It wouldn’t be. Not exactly.

He mulls over the jealousy and determines it has minimal to do with not being the one to lift the Cup, it has less to do with Zimms kissing someone who isn’t him. It has everything to do with Jack getting to kiss his boyfriend in front of everyone without a care in the world.

That’s enough time, he decides, the chair screeching against tile and wobbling as he stands. He does a quick, habitual pat of his pockets—phone, wallet, keys—before leaving in what will become known as a smoke bomb by his teammates: there one minute but gone the next.

It’s a half hour cab ride off the strip and into Henderson. Kent’s done it a million times before and usually it drags, takes too long to get to where he wants to be. This time it doesn’t seem to take any time at all.

The street is as quiet as it usual. It’s not much later in the night than when Kent usually gets there. The only differences are that he’s not driving himself and that he’s not feeling small butterflies fluttering around in his stomach. He feels nauseous, to be perfectly honest. There’s doubt creeping into the numbness—is this really where he should be going?

Mark doesn’t answer the door instantly. Or within three seconds of Kent knocking. He may have woken up the people in the house next door, though, the security light came on and their dog started barking. That’s not his fault, he doesn’t think.

Kent calls him. That also takes longer than three seconds to get a response but he perseveres.

“Kenny?”

“Can—” Kent has to clear his throat when he sounds like he’s choking. “Can you answer your door, please?”

The line goes quiet but it doesn’t go dead. He keeps it held up to his ear, able to hear only rustling sheets and dull footsteps.

He’s zoned out again because the next thing he knows he’s being gently guided through an open door, his phone is being taken from his hands and Mark is looking down at him with such softness but such uncertainty.

“Jesus, Kenny.”

And apparently Kent looks just as bad as he feels because Mark holds his face gently in his hands, briefly runs his thumbs over Kent’s cheekbones before moving his hands to the back of Kent’s head and holding him to his chest.

“He just—he kissed his boyfriend at centre ice, in front of the whole world,” Kent says slowly.

The jealousy is back, making his whole body jolt.

“Who did?” Mark asks after a few moments of silence.

“Jack.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” Mark asks gently.

Kent feels small—even smaller so than usual.

“I—he’ll be able to hold his boyfriend’s hand if everyone already knows. I want that.”

Mark doesn’t sigh out loud, but Kent feels his chest deflate abruptly. “We talked about it, you don’t want that at the moment. You want hockey.”

“Why can’t I have both?”

It’s petulant, the way he says it. He knows why he can’t have both. _Knew_ at least because now everything has changed and he doesn’t think he knows anything. Jack has already done it, there’s less pressure now than before. There has to be.

Mark kisses the top of his head.

Kent releases tension he didn’t know he was holding.

A phone dings on the kitchen counter, Kent recognises it as his and the tension returns as quickly as it left. Mark leans forward, just enough to be able to grab it and read it.

Scraps wants to know where the hell Kent went and has asked more than once, Kent notices when Mark shows him the screen. Kent pulls away. He doesn’t want to but he needs to assure Scraps that he hasn’t died or been kidnapped.

Mark places the phone gently in the palm of his hand, and then moves to rest his gently on Kent’s back, guiding him to sit down on the couch.

They sit next to each other, Kent basically on top of Mark, and Kent grips his phone tight in his hand. The rest of his body, though, is relaxed against Mark as he revels in the proximity. The warmth. The fact that he can have this and maybe not just on a couch in the privacy of someone’s home.

It has to be nearing two in the morning when Kent finally gets up the courage. The number he probably shouldn’t have and certainly should not be calling at such ludicrous hours, but he does and he is.

It goes straight to voicemail. Kent was honestly expecting it to. Hoping it to, maybe. Jack’s phone is likely to have run out of battery and probably did so hours ago. It’s also nearing five in the morning in Providence. Nobody answers their phone at five in the morning.

He expected and hoped, but the automated voice tells him to leave a message and beeps and Kent has zero idea what to say.

“Zimms—I—” he pulls the phone away from his ear, stares at it in his hand and fumbles to end the call.

Mark is looking at him, the same softness and uncertainty in his eyes.

It’s two in the morning and Mark has a shift starting at seven. He’s still sitting next to Kent on the couch, his hand resting on Kent’s knee.

“He’ll call you back when he can.”

“I don’t know what I want to say to him,” Kent says, his eyes falling shut.

“There’s plenty of time to think about it.”

Kent shuffles down the couch so that he can rest his head in Mark’s lap.

He feels fingers in his hair and another hand resting on his ribcage and then the next thing he knows, there is no head underneath his legs, the room is filled with the warm light of early morning and his phone is dinging next to his ear.

It’s nearly ten, is the first thing he notices. Way later than he likes to sleep but he’ll cut himself some slack just this once. The next he notices is that Mark has sent him a text, saying that he just has to go to work for a few hours before someone can come in to cover his shift, and Kent’s heart swells.

It beats even more rapidly when he sees that he also has a text from Jack—and a missed call, no voicemail—and he doesn’t really want to know what Jack has to say about the late-night call or the silent voicemail but it’s so short that Kent has read it before he even realises.

 

_You’ve got this._


End file.
